The world trembled, though its people did not yet understand why. The night of *The Shattering* still echoed in the songs of travelers, whispered in frightened villages, and burned like the shards themselves in the hearts of the chosen. The balance, so fragile, had begun to break.
---
Aelia
The morning wind carried with it a sharp bite, cutting through Aelia's worn cloak as she stood atop the hill. She could taste ash on the air—a bitter reminder of the villages she had passed on her journey. From her vantage, the camp below looked deceptively peaceful. It sprawled across the valley in clusters of canvas tents and wooden carts, horses tethered in quiet huddles, families gathered around smoldering fires. But Aelia's shard told a different story.
It pulsed softly beneath her ribcage, a steady hum like the thrum of unseen wings. Its pull was faint at first—a nagging sense that she was needed here. But as she gazed down at the small nomadic camp, the shard's power grew, burning against her chest like a coal pressed too close to the skin. There was suffering here. Pain. And something more: fear.
"Another village," Aelia whispered to herself. Her breath misted on the cold air, but she did not move.
For a moment, she wanted to turn back. To ignore the shard's tugging and return to the safety of the woods, where no eyes watched her and no voices whispered *miracle* or *curse*. But she could not. It had been like this since the night of the Shattering—since the shard had found its way into her heart, changing her, marking her.
"Just one more step," she whispered again, clutching the golden chain around her neck.
The necklace—her only keepsake from a family she no longer remembered—grounded her. Her fingers ran over its simple design, searching for comfort before she began her descent.
The camp was alive with the quiet hum of activity, though she could see the signs of strain. Spears rested against tent poles, their blades freshly sharpened. Men moved in groups, their voices low, glancing toward the horizon as if they expected the earth itself to betray them. Mothers clutched their children closer than usual, watching strangers with suspicion.
At the camp's center, a woman knelt beside a small figure, her cries sharp and heart-wrenching. Aelia slowed her steps, the shard in her chest blazing hotter with every pace. She could see him now—a boy, no older than seven, lying still on the ground. His face was pale, almost gray, his chest barely rising. The others kept their distance, their murmured prayers doing little to mask the scent of sickness hanging in the air.
"Please," the woman sobbed, rocking back and forth. "Wake up, Adric, please!"
Aelia's shard twisted within her, its pain unbearable. *This is why I am here.*
She moved without thinking, slipping through the onlookers who turned to stare at her with wide, suspicious eyes. "What happened?"
The woman flinched at the sound of her voice, her tear-streaked face lifting. "Who are you?"
"A traveler," Aelia said softly. "May I try to help?"
"Help?" The woman's voice cracked. Her gaze darted over Aelia's threadbare cloak and weathered face, uncertainty warring with desperation. Finally, she nodded, her hands trembling as she moved aside. "If you can… please."
Aelia knelt beside the boy. He was so still, his body so small. *Just a child,* she thought. She pressed her hands against his chest, steadying her breath. The shard responded immediately, its energy rising to meet her will—at first a faint pulse, then a torrent of light.
Golden warmth spilled from her palms, sinking into the boy's body. Aelia felt it flowing through her—a power not her own, drawn from the shard itself. It burned like fire, scorching away whatever sickness had taken root, filling the boy's body with light and life.
It only took moments, but it felt like hours. When it was done, Aelia sagged forward, her breathing ragged. The boy gasped—a sharp, sudden breath—and his eyes fluttered open, wide with confusion.
"Adric!" the woman screamed, pulling him into her arms. Her cries turned to laughter, tears running freely as she rocked him back and forth.
Around them, the camp erupted into murmurs. Some sounded awestruck, others fearful. Aelia could feel their eyes on her, their words pressing against her like stones.
"Miracle."
"Shardborn."
"Cursed."
Her strength faltered, and the world tilted around her. She was barely aware of the hands that caught her—an old man with sharp eyes and calloused hands, steadying her as she fell.
"What are you?" he whispered.
Aelia managed a faint smile, her vision darkening. "Just a traveler."
As the whispers swelled into a roar, Aelia's world faded to black.
---
Tobin
Tobin sat cross-legged before the fire, his brow furrowed in deep thought. Around him, the sounds of his people preparing for the evening's meeting filtered through the air—the scrape of blades against whetstones, the crackle of fires, the soft cries of children tucked safely away. It was a familiar rhythm, one that had sustained his tribe for generations. But tonight, it felt different.
The arrival of the *Children of Solaris* had unsettled them all. Maric, the leader of the group, stood on the edge of the firelight, his posture too calm, too still. He wore robes embroidered with the symbol of a blazing sun—an image Tobin had heard of but never seen up close. The Children were few, but their name carried weight among the tribes. They spoke of the shards as a gift, a blessing from Solaris himself.
Tobin had never trusted blessings.
"I bring a message, Chief Tobin," Maric said finally, stepping into the firelight. His voice was smooth, practiced—a voice meant to calm the uncertain. "The world is changing. You have seen it, I am sure. The Shardborn walk among us, chosen by Solaris to lift us from the darkness left by the Shattering Night."
Tobin's gaze did not waver. "And what does this have to do with my people?"
Maric smiled faintly. "Shelter them. Join us. The Children of Solaris will protect you when the Dawn Reavers come."
The Dawn Reavers. Tobin's warriors tensed at the name, their hands drifting toward their weapons. He had heard the stories—raiders who hunted the Shardborn, burning villages to the ground and leaving nothing but ash.
"And if we refuse?" Tobin asked, his voice low.
Maric's smile faded. "Refusal is not refusal of us, but refusal of hope itself."
Before Tobin could reply, the sharp sound of hooves broke through the night. A scout stumbled into the firelight, his face pale and his voice shaking. "Chief! Riders approach—from the east!"
The gathering dissolved into chaos. Tobin rose swiftly, his hand going to the axe at his belt. "How many?"
"Dozens," the scout replied. "Banners of the Dawn Reavers."
Maric's expression turned grave. "They come to destroy what they do not understand."
Tobin's heart pounded. His people were strong, but they were not warriors. Not against such numbers. He turned to his tribe, their faces etched with fear. "Gather the children and the elders. Prepare to move the camp."
"Chief," one of his warriors said, his voice low, "they will catch us before we can escape."
Maric stepped forward, his eyes burning with conviction. "Let us stand with you. Together, we can protect your people."
Tobin hesitated. He had spent his life keeping his tribe safe, moving them when danger drew too close. But this time, he knew running would not be enough. The Dawn Reavers would not stop hunting until the Shardborn—and all who sheltered them—were ash.
"Stand with us," Tobin said finally, his voice steady. "But know this: if you betray my people, I will kill you myself."
Maric inclined his head, his smile returning. "We only seek to serve the light."
Tobin turned to his warriors. "Prepare yourselves. Tonight, we fight."
In the distance, the thunder of hooves grew louder.